


Azor Ahai

by JoanneValjean



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Azor Ahai, Death, F/M, Fan theory, Jon Snow knows nothing, Possible outcomes, Spoilers, TPTWP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 13:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2654123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoanneValjean/pseuds/JoanneValjean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of the ways I think that George R.R. Martin may write the coming of Azor Ahai.  Note that none or one or some of these may end up being right or partially right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Azor Ahai

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD AND MAYBE SPOILERS!. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
> 
> This is an outcome that is one of two or three that is perceived by many to become true.
> 
> Also, I wrote this fast. Don't judge.

Blood.

Why was it so red?

Snow and Snow were covered in it. And Snow wasn't Snow, not anymore. He was just an empty vessel, a shell in which the potential for greatness had been, where a boy, barely a man, had borne an insurmountable weight upon his fur-covered shoulders. No puffs of breath came from him any longer, nothing to stir the tension and discord among the brothers of the Night's Watch that hung heavily in the air.

"What do we do?" asked a thick, gruff voice.

"Burn him," came the reply. "Can't have him coming back as one of them."

"If someone should discover......"

"They won't, will they?"

"But a bastard, especially of Lord Eddard...."

"A bastard, nonetheless."

" Aye," many agreed.

Very soon, the Brothers gathered around a hastily constructed pile of stone and the little wood that could be spared from what they used to warm their huddled masses. Upon it lay the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, his curly hair crusty with dried blood, his pale lips parted as if they were going to take a breath. By his side was his sword. They had argued for a while over the sword going with him-weapons were short enough-but tradition had won out in the dishonorable pack of beasts.

In the back of the room was Melisandre, who watched this scene with indifference. She had not been infatuated with the boy, and her mind was on Azor Ahai, Stannis Baratheon, rightful king of Westeros, not on a silly bastard who lay dead. Her face was concealed in the shadows, her feminine curves lit up by the steady roar of the flame. Though Snow had meant little to her, she had come out of respect.

"Do we pray?" asked a man.

"To whom?" another gruffly laughed. "The Old and the New abandon us."

"The Lord of Light will guide us," Melisandre intoned, stepping from the shadows into the light, close to the flame.

"Your god can burn. Where is he now?"

"He is here, with us always. The Lord of Light will protect us. The night is dark and full of terrors," she smiled, her grin like a brand.

It was then that she cried out in pain, falling to her knees and clutching her ruby necklace, which burned hotter than a thousand suns. The light, red as a poppy, shone from between her fingers.

She heard the direwolf that had belonged to the man on the pyre howling like a madman, scratching desperately at the stone walls.

"Will someone shut it up?"

"Ah," Melisandre gasped, almost overwhelmed by pain. No, this was nothing but a purer kind of pain, a pain that reminded her that the Lord of Light was sending her signs. "Leave the beast."

"Seven Hells, woman, you shut your cunt mouth."

"Seven Hells."

"What? What is it, man?"

"Look."

She herself turned, the pain lessening enough that she was mobile again. There was definitely strangeness occurring for her necklace to burn so. 

And she nearly cried aloud at the sight, as many men did.

From the flames rose the body of Jon Snow, trailing fire from every limb. No, not a body any longer. It was a man wholly restored to himself, not just a shell. It seemed as though he had undergone a total transformation, for now, his hair was a silvery yellow as to be almost white, his eyes were a deep shade of violet, and his Northern furs had undergone metamorphosis to create dragonskins. His eyes shone with the intenseness of the Sun, as if he had gained thousands of years worth of experience in a matter of minutes. 

"Blood of my blood...." muttered Tyran Hill, bending the knee to the resurrected man. The rest of the Brothers present did the same, some grudgingly, but overall awestruck by the miracle they had just witnessed.

"I am Jon Snow of House Targaryen," spoke the living flame. The rebirth had given him glimpses of the afterlife. Just as Eddard Stark had had dreams, he had had a dream of a scared young woman. 'Promise me, Ned,' she had begged a younger version of his father, who had held him as a babe. There was no concrete that it was anything more than that, a dream, but he knew in his heart that it was true.

With hardly a look of remorse on his face, he took his sword and thrust it into Melisandre's breast, taking sickening joy in it. He didn't know why he did it. He just did. 

As the woman bled out onto the straw, a lone star twinkled in the sky, bleeding for his rebirth.

Jon didn't have time to think of prophecies and dead witches. For now, he just sought answers. And he would get them, later. He was still Lord Commander, after all.

And for the first time, the Northern night was alive with the sound of a song of ice and fire.


End file.
